


Myself, I'm Made of Nothing

by Vermin_Disciple



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Bullying, Childhood, Dark, Ficathon 2009, Gen, Mental Illness, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermin_Disciple/pseuds/Vermin_Disciple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The boy didn't reach for his proffered hand, but his eyes flicked from the far wall to Gene's face. "Are you here to arrest me?" he asked. The voice was flat, devoid of any interest or emotion.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Myself, I'm Made of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [wesseling](http://wesseling.livejournal.com) for the [lifein1973](http://community.livejournal.com/lifein1973/) 2009 Ficathon, based on the following prompt: "Sam Williams, orphanage, dark." The Sam Williams in this is very close to being the same Sam Williams found in [Convergence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/73586). And this Gene Hunt is basically the Gene Hunt from [Tin Star](http://archiveofourown.org/works/76214). Though reading either of those stories is certainly not necessary to understanding this. The title is a line (taken entirely out of context) from the Roger Whittaker song, "A Special Kind of Man."

Nobody liked Sam. Everyone _knew_ that nobody liked Sam. Sam was _weird_. Sam stood around talking to himself.

There he was now, standing at the edge of the playground. Johnny watched him from the swings, steadily pumping his legs to go higher and higher. Below him, the huddled form of Sam Williams shrunk and grew and shrunk and grew, as he swung up and down, high and low. Neither of them had joined the football game going on in the nearby grass. Sam _never_ joined in the football games. Johnny did when he felt like it; he didn't have nothing to prove. He didn't need group approval to avoid getting his head knocked in.

Mrs. Hamilton's hawk eyes were on the game. Someone _always_ got a good kicking during games. He'd lay a hundred quid on it, if he had a hundred quid. Which he didn't. He'd never even seen a hundred quid.

Maybe when he was older, he'd nick it, like Jim Miller's older brother, who'd already got out. Only he wouldn't be stupid and get himself nicked too.

Sam looked around wildly, like an animal trapped in a cage. Johnny hit his highest height and lunged forward, launching himself off the swing in a smooth arc and landing in the sawdust below. The shock of impact forced him into a graceless half-crouch, but he recovered quickly and walked steadily forward. Sam wasn't looking at him, hadn't even noticed. His mouth was moving in some strange silent mutter.

Then, as Johnny watched, Sam found his voice.

"From the diary, quote." Sam clutched his head and said in a rush, "I killed her. She's been killed. I'm a killer, an ace killer." He stopped, and an awful smirk settled on his face. "That particular entry is not awash with ambiguity."

Johnny nearly shuddered. Something unnatural lurked in Sam's eyes, something horrible and ugly and dangerous, and Johnny felt secure in the knowledge that it was his bloody _right_ to stamp it out. He shoved Sam's shoulder hard.

_That_ snapped him out of it. Whatever _it_ was.

Sam blinked, and stared at him blearily for a second before shaking himself. "Piss off, Cunningham," he snarled, shoving him back.

"Keep your hands to yourself, you little cocksucker," he said, and came out swinging. Sam was small and skinny and Johnny had him on the ground in a matter of seconds. But Sam kept fighting, hissing and clawing at him like an alley-cat, so he kicked at him and rolled him over and smashed his face into the ground. He got in another kick, for good measure.

When Sam stopped fighting, Johnny felt a stab of satisfaction. Then he took a closer look and cold panic froze him to the spot. Oh, God, he was in for it this time. After a moment's hesitation, he turned and fled.

*

Mrs. Hamilton rubbed her temples as she read through the file for what felt like the hundredth time. There had to be a more effective way to deal with this predicament, but whatever she tried, she just couldn't see it.

Moving the boy wouldn't do anything but turn him into someone else's problem. It wouldn't help him, not really; wherever he went, there were sure to be more John Cunninghams to meet him. The boy drew trouble like rubbish drew flies. He might as well wander the yard with a painted target on his back.

He was lying in the nurse's ward at the moment, recovering from this latest incident. For his other troubles, Mrs. Hamilton feared that recovery was impossible.

The file was short, but contained a wealth of information. It contained a single picture, and she pulled this out now and gazed at it. A family of four grinned up obliviously at her, stocky mustached father and pretty blonde mother, little sister with a red headband holding back her hair, and Sam Williams in the middle, who might have been any other twelve-year-old, if he had never needed to come under her care.

Mother, father, and sister lost in one fell swoop… it was no wonder the boy had gone a bit… well, odd.

But that explanation didn't sit quite right, either. It wasn't as though he was the only child here who had lost everything. He was in good company, on that count. That was why they were _all_ here. They all had different methods of coping, these John Cunninghams and Sam Williams's.

Well, it wasn't for her to speculate on the whys and wherefores. It was merely up to her to deal with the aftermath.

Johnny was awaiting sentence in her husband's office. Sam was lying in bandages and crisp white sheets, waiting for the world to start making sense. Mrs. Hamilton was waiting for her call for help to be answered.

Like clockwork, there it was: a knock on the door, three hard raps, opening a split-second before she said, "Come in, Constable."

Uncertainty gripped her when she looked up. Perhaps this hadn't been as brilliant as solution as she'd envisioned.

The PC who pushed and stomped his way into the room was terribly young. He could not have been more than a couple of years older than the oldest of her own boys – and his expression was familiar, too. Dull, resigned anger lurked in his green eyes, a grim recognition that the world was a hard and wretched place, which he could do nothing to fix. A livid purple bruise was fading on his brow; perhaps it was a lesson learned by failure. His blonde hair was slicked back and he carried his helmet under his arm, resting against his hip. He introduced himself as Police Constable Hunt, and his expression was annoyed but curious. "What seems to be the problem, ma'am," he asked, mechanically.

She explained the situation, and what she wanted. "He's a child. Obviously you're not here to _arrest_ him. I just want you to give him a good talking too. Frighten him, if you must." She paused. "You must understand that this isn't just about him. He's merely the example; the lesson, if you will. I want it to be understood by everyone that this behavior will _not_ be tolerated. Absolutely not." _I'm at my wit's end here_, she added, but only to herself.

"And you think this is worth wasting police time over, do you?" he said, sitting down on the edge of her desk and leaning just far enough to discomfit her. "They're kids. They all want to get in a good kicking, and most are gonna get it, whatever you do. If you don't know that, you ain't gonna last much longer in a place like this."

_Thirty years I've lasted_, she thought. _Thirty years and I'll wager I've seen more than horrors than you have, young Mr. Policeman. It'll be a long time before you stop being angry at the things that shock you now. You'll understand the danger of laxity, when you've had thirty years._

"I've been here thirty years, Constable Hunt. I know very well what children can be like, especially under these circumstances. But this is a matter of some delicacy. Sam Williams, the boy on the receiving end of the 'kicking,' as you say, is quite-" and here she faltered. _Thirty years and I've never met a boy like Sam Williams._ Oh, well, best not to mince words. "He's a highly disturbed individual. Harmless, I believe, and perfectly lucid most of the time. But he has funny turns, and he's always attracting trouble. I think there's a chance that this will work itself out, given time, if I can stop the rest of them from forcing him to hide away inside himself. John Cunningham is the worst of the lot, the most feared. If he's worried, they're all worried."

"Wherever there's a 'worst' anyone, there are a dozen others waiting in line to rob him of his title," said Hunt. He pulled out a fag and gave her a critical look. But something in his eyes was interested in helping her, and she lunged at it.

"That may be. It may be that shaking Cunningham up does nowt but replace him with someone else, looking to make a name for himself by taking out the resident madman. But you're already here, so it's worth a try, surely? Cunningham's shaping up to be a nasty piece of work. So, you can think of it as preventative policing, if you like: perhaps a stern talking-to now will save you an arrest later." _Perhaps even two arrests._

She had him. He stabbed the cigarette out in her ashtray and removed himself from her desk. "My afternoon's shot anyway. I might as well stick around until clocking off and Beer-O'clock." He shot her a cocky grin, and reached for the door. Then he hesitated.

"May I speak to him first?"

"Well of course, that is what you're here for," she said, exasperated.

"No, not _him_, not Cunningham. The Williams kid. Let me speak to him."

"Oh." That sounded like a dreadful idea, with Sam in this state. But if Hunt was going to be compliant this easily, she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Certainly. He's in the nurse's ward, down the hall, third door on the right."

He left, leaving the room stinking of his smoky breath and cheap cologne. She tucked the Williams' family picture back into the file, and closed it. The words 'Williams, Sam' glared accusingly up at her from the side of the folder, its otherwise blank surface hiding its modicum of dreadful and terrible things.

*

Waste of his bloody time, this.

Lots of things were a waste of his time these days, ever since he'd shopped Harry Althwaite. It was worse now that Harry'd copped it. Whiny old bats and lost dollies and treed kittens - that was what Gene Hunt was good for. Anything serious and who knows what trouble he'll cause. Who knows whether his backup will show. Look at him, lecturing schoolyard bullies now – what a laugh.

Well, he wasn't laughing. He wasn't even grinning.

Gene slammed his helmet back on as he walked down the hallway. The place was bloody depressing. Misery oozed from the walls.

"That's what this job is really about, Hunt," Harry had told him once, pausing to take a swig from his ever present hipflask. "This city is filled with them – the war widows, the orphans – them that don't have anyone to look after 'em. Just us. That's what we're really here for."

So here he was, off to tell-off an orphan (the perpetrator). But first he'd let the other orphan (the victim) know what was what, tell him that someone gave a damn about him besides that miserable old cow who ran the place.

He opened the door without knocking. The room was sparse, just a few empty, white-sheeted, metal-framed beds and a stale, antiseptic smell in the air. Williams was alone. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, with a sheet pulled up to his stomach and bruises on his face. Gene doubted that he really needed to be in here, from a purely physical perspective. Gene knew damn well that boys his age were resilient, and stubborn as all hell. No one he'd known growing up would have stood for being locked away like this, not if they could stand on their own.

But this boy wasn't after restoration. He needed _asylum._

Williams didn't even glance over when Gene barged in. Gene came right up close, until he was hovering over, trousers brushing up against the bedspread. "Hello there, Sammy-boy," he said, with joviality designed to annoy. He stuck out his hand. "PC Hunt."

The boy didn't reach for his proffered hand, but his eyes flicked from the far wall to Gene's face. "Are you here to arrest me?" he asked. The voice was flat, devoid of any interest or emotion.

"Why? You done anything you need arresting for?" asked Gene, injecting as much feigned suspicion into it as he could muster.

"For being mad. Everyone knows I'm mad."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. It struck him that Williams looked a bit like Stu. Darker hair, darker eyes – but the expression was similar. That haunted, hopeless look was definitely one he'd caught Stu wearing. _The world has it out for me,_ it said. _The world has it out for me and there's nothing I can do but roll over and take it._ Seeing it filled him with and odd mix of sympathy and irritation. He usually picked fights with Stu when he saw it – best not to let those thoughts settle, or they might stick. Better to be angry than wallowing, better to have something to fight back against than to give up in the face of all the terrible things that _couldn't_ be fought. Most of the time it worked. And if they both ended up with black eyes, what of it?

"Stupidity's a crime, not madness. If it were, then half the police force'd be in trouble." This didn't get a grin, but he did spy a reflexive twitch around the boy's swollen mouth.

What the hell was he doing here? Jokes aside, he had nothing to say to this boy, no reassurance to offer. He was the last person to offer reassurance to anyone.

Williams sat up, wincing slightly. He looked more human now, more like a normal boy who'd had a bad run-in with some angry fists, and less like a forlorn ghost. "I want to be a copper," he said. Hope, that was what made the difference.

"Do you now? Scrawny little no-account like you?"

"'M not scrawny," protested Williams. "You should see the black eye Cunningham's got." Gene took in the myriad bruises blossoming on the kid's body, and figured he needed all the ego boosting he could get. "That was self-defense," Williams added quickly.

"So I've heard."

"Are you here to arrest Johnny, then? For assault?" The kid was brightening up more every minute; it was like watching the sun rise. Personally, Gene didn't see much point in arresting anyone over a good old-fashioned punch-up, but he didn't say that.

"Nope. Just gonna menace him a little, let him know what'll happen if he keeps being such a miserable wanker."

Williams nodded, nearly smiling for real this time. This was going surprisingly well, all things considered. "Well, I'd best be off then. Places to go, gits to grind. So long, and watch your arse better, next time."

"Will do. Goodbye, sir."

He was halfway to the door when he heard Williams' voice again. "I'm sorry, Gene," he said, hardly more than a low murmur. Something about his tone made hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He turned slowly. Williams was staring at the wall opposite him. He continued, speaking so quietly it was almost a whisper.

"But what else could I do?" he said. "How could I stay? I would have been _mad_ to stay. How could I even think of it? God, Gene, I'm sorry. I know it doesn't matter now, but I'm sorry."

Williams stopped addressing the wall then, and looked straight at him. His eyes were wide and empty and more terrifying than any armed blagger he'd ever faced. Gene suddenly understood why Cunningham had beaten this kid to a bloody pulp, because it was all Gene could do to stop himself from crossing the room and trying to smack some sanity into him. Instead, he took the coward's way and fled, slamming the door behind him. All down the hallway, the eerie voice was still ringing in his ears. _God, Gene, I'm sorry._

It occurred to him, much later, that he'd never told the boy his first name.

_Finis_


End file.
